Chapter 1Erasing My Husband Ten Years Early

Two days before I was supposed to hand in my resignation and step into the quiet, protected life of a stay-at-home wife, I stumbled across a post on a forum.

The prompt was blunt: "Who is the most pathetic woman you’ve ever met?"

The top-voted reply made the blood drain straight from my face.

"Easy. My idiot wife."

"Only child. Rich parents with prime real estate. And she actually bought the lie that I loved her."

"Walked away from her high-paying corporate gig just to keep my house clean, wait on my folks hand and foot, and pop out a son for my family name."

"Her folks died early, left the whole estate to her. Took a little sweet-talking to get my name on the deed, then had her sign a few ‘standard financial agreements.’"

"Walked away with every single dime. Kicked her out without a cent. Left her begging on her knees just to catch a glimpse of the kid."

"Now she’s a crazy bag lady rummaging through dumpster bins in the cold, screaming to anyone who’ll listen that I was a social climber who bled her family dry. Ha! Like anyone would ever believe a lunatic."

My heart plummeted into an abyss.

I was an only child.

And only two nights ago, my husband had wrapped his arms around me from behind, burying his face in my neck, murmuring softly: "Babe, you’re running yourself ragged at the office. Hand in your notice. Let me take care of you from now on."

Worse still: I was currently preparing to give up my career, entirely convinced that doing so was the ultimate act of love.

* * *

The comment section beneath the post was a war zone.

"Dude, talk to a defense attorney. Financial abuse and fraud will land your ass in prison."

"If he’s brazen enough to brag about it online, the paperwork is airtight. His poor wife probably still has no clue how she got played."

"The cruelest part isn’t even stealing her fortune. It’s breaking her mind and then laughing at the wreckage."

The original poster replied with sickening ease.

"Why’s everyone so pressed? You play the game, you accept the loss. If she weren't blinded by fairy tales, would a thirty-year-old woman really believe a man when he says ‘I’ll provide for you forever’?"

"She signed the papers herself. She added my name to the deed herself. Even the probate judge couldn’t find a loophole, so what are you armchair moralists crying about?"

"Oh, here’s a funny detail: a few days ago, she cornered me outside a recycling center, begging to see our son."

"I told her, sure, bark like a dog and call me Daddy, and I’ll let you see him. Hahahaha."

"She actually did it. Too bad the kid didn't even recognize her. He hid behind my coat, terrified. Now tell me, can you really blame me for that?"

A wave of violent nausea hit me. I had to grip the edge of the kitchen counter to keep from heaving.

Reading those words, an absurd, horrifying thought flickered across my mind: "Brendan."

I immediately shook my head, trying to banish the poison. I was losing my mind. Brendan wasn't capable of this.

Brendan was the man who tracked my menstrual cycle on his own calendar. He was the man who would stand on the sidewalk beneath my office building at eleven at night in the freezing rain, holding a thermos of hot chicken broth. He was the man who poured tea for my parents with humble, reverent hands, so impeccably polite that neither of them could find a single flaw in him.

I went to swipe out of the app, desperate to scrub the filth from my mind, when my thumb froze.

The timestamp on the post.

"November 14, 2036."

My breath caught.

The lock screen on my phone clearly read: "October 2026."

A post from ten years in the future?

A bug. It had to be a glitch, a server error, or some sick prank. I force-closed the app, refreshed my network, and searched the thread again.

The post was still there.

The timestamp remained unyielding: "2036."

Driven by a cold, crawling dread, I tapped on the poster’s avatar to open his profile history.

A post from six months prior:

"Family heirloom from the wife’s side. Appraised in the six figures. Kept safe in my private vault now."

Attached was a photo. A carved jade pendant, pale green and translucent, shaped like an open circle. Along the outer rim was a tiny, jagged chip, right beside an engraved letter: "L."

My lungs seized.

For my twenty-second birthday, my mother had taken me to a master lapidary in the historic district to have my initial engraved onto an antique piece of jade passed down through generations. On the very last stroke, the craftsman’s chisel slipped, cleaving off a minute sliver of stone. The artisan had apologized profusely, offering to replace the raw material, but my mother had gently closed her fingers over the flawed jade.

"No need," she had said softly. "A flaw makes it ours. Nothing whole ever truly belongs to this world."

There was only one such pendant in existence.

Right now, it was locked away in the topmost drawer of the jewelry armoire in my bedroom.

Under key.

My trembling finger dragged down the screen.

Two years ago: "She’s climbing fast. Just made Director. A damn shame, really. No matter how high a woman climbs in the boardroom, she still has to kneel at home. Already planting the seeds to make her quit."

Three years ago: "Dinner with the future in-laws went great. The old man asked me what I saw in her. I told him I just loved her pure heart. Haha. If he only knew how much I’m planning to take."

One year from now: "She just miscarried. Crying her eyes out. I pulled her close and whispered, ‘It’s okay, baby, I’ll take care of you.’ She was trembling, clinging to me like I was her savior. Truth is, I breathed a sigh of relief. A baby right now would just complicate the asset transfer."

Beneath that post, someone had commented: "You absolute monster."

He had replied: "Call me a monster all you want. Monsters are the ones eating steak while the sheep starve."

Post by post, my thumbs went numb, the cold spreading up my wrists, into my marrow.

Then, five years into the timeline.

A photo of a medical admission receipt.

"Restful Pines Psychiatric Care Facility."

In the patient name box, printed in crisp, indisputable ink:

"Lyra Alden."

My name.

The room tilted.

The man behind the screen wasn't a stranger.

It was Brendan.